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He hears them arguing, the muffled sound of their voices tickling his ears from down the chilly stone hall.
It gives him pause, his ears straining, because they do not argue; Uncle Gwayne may voice disagreement at times, but Ormund is the sort to smile it off and put a lid on it with some holier-than-thou logic. There is no arguing with the Lord of Hightower; he crushes the notion of it with ease. Any and all opposition has always crashed upon his high walls and found itself wanting in the face of Ormund's supreme dominion as Head of House. This being said, Daeron narrows his eyes a bit, as if that will help him hear better. He can make out the low cadence of Ormund's arrogant pitch, and the smooth, easy tone that belongs to his Uncle.
It turns out that squinting doesn't help any with the muffled mish-mosh of words, so Daeron creeps down the hall until things start becoming slightly clearer.
"My sister.......asks it. You......the Dowager Queen....Oldtown has greater need of me?"
"She forgets where....from. Besides...no need.....the petty squabbles.....profane, incestuous heretics.....King's Landing."
The mention of Daeron's siblings, of his ill-favored blood, makes his heart sink with shame. Ormund has always told him that there is hope for him to rise above the darkness and filth in his veins. The Hightower part of Daeron is better-
There's the sound of footsteps, and Daeron ducks into a dark alcove, not daring to be seen dropping eaves on his elders. Gwayne sweeps by unawares with a rough sigh, face tight, and Daeron hears the telltale sound of things being knocked off a table in the room Gwayne took his leave from.
Daeron shudders, hearing yet another object bang off a wall, and tiptoes away, because the last thing he wants is to be caught spying by Ormund when he's having one of his moments.
Gloom takes Daeron the day that Gwayne saddles up with the host accompanying him to King's Landing. It will be a three-month journey there, at the least. The thought of his Uncle being gone that long seems unfathomably unbearable. In a household of rules, masks, and careful steps, his Uncle is his truest friend, the only one that Daeron can speak freely with.
Standing in his fine doublet of deep forest green, Gwayne's fiery hair catches sunlight like a halo as he stands there with an easy smile, reciting a bloody list of things for Daeron to do while he's gone, as though this is some small absence. But it isn't, and Daeron feels sick.
"Remember to mind your manners. Mind the moods. Absolutely no lip. Try not to speak out of turn. Do not slack in your studies, because you will be tested— and he is not as lenient as I." He looks smart in his travel finery, though his Uncle has always been well-dressed. Seeing the strained expression on his nephew's face, Gwayne's voice dips into something gentler, comforting like a blanket on a cold night. "Do not look so. You'll be fine. You are strong." Gwayne has never been the openly touchy sort —not like Ormund, who uses the mere weight of his hand as a reminder of control— so he doesn't hug Daeron, though Daeron wishes for it. He envisions Gwayne embracing him tightly, telling him he doesn't wish to leave, that he will miss him-
His childish fantasy is not granted, for Gwayne has always been aloof about feelings, emotions. He is outwardly an honorable, well-meaning knight, but there is always a dark pool of something lonesome lurking under the surface of his friendly visage, as though his appearance is a mask he wears to protect himself. Daeron knows why he protects himself, so it is hard to hate his Uncle for it.
Gwayne squares his shoulders and tilts his head fondly to the side, pale eyes clearer than they've been in a long time. "Any words you want me to bring your mother?"
He's not sad about this, Daeron thinks, looking at him, stomach filling with gritty sand and rocks.
Daeron looks away from his Uncle, unable to control the bitterness that festers within him like rotted meat. "No." A silly, childish part of him resents the mother he barely knows for taking his Uncle away. Of course Daeron loves her, but he doesn't know her. Not really. And Uncle Gwayne is the one who always listens to him, and never makes him feel like a stupid child. Not the way Ormund does, and needless to say, Daeron is being left with him.
Speaking of. "Where is he?" Daeron says before Gwayne can tell him to come up with something to send his mother's way. He looks about, but there is no sign of Lord Hightower to see the men off. His absence is pointed, like the edge of a blade. Daeron has acted as Ormund's squire in the recent few years, but Gwayne has been at his side for far longer than that, and in a much different capacity. There is a level of demented dependency that is undeniable between them, made more obvious by the tightrope that everyone walks in the presence of Lord Hightower. Ormund needs someone to lash out at, and Gwayne is long since numb to the burden of being that person since childhood. The toxic way they engage has stopped raising eyebrows long ago.
Ormund's absence now is an insult, and Daeron knows that his Uncle is no stranger to those.
"He's already said all he's going to say on the matter," Gwayne says, a shadow lurking in his eyes. "You know how he is about things that are not his to control. My duty to the crown supersedes my duty here for the moment."
If only Ormund were villain enough to force Gwayne to set aside his oath to the crown. If anyone could do it, it would be him. In a small voice, the voice of a boy, Daeron finally begs, "Don't g-"
"Don't ask me not to leave." A hint of exhaustion fills Gwayne's tone, solemness stealing across his features. "I cannot grant that request, Daeron. Not for you, not for Lord Hightower."
So, he did tell you not to go, Daeron thinks mournfully.
His Uncle swings up onto his horse, casting a wry grin Daeron's way. "Do not fret. All of this will soon be a bad memory, Daeron. I'll be home before you remember to miss me." Before Daeron can reply, he urges his steed forward, past the gates, leading him far, far away.
In the Sept, Daeron prays his mother does not keep Gwayne long.
His prayers are not answered.
There is a void in every room that Uncle Gwayne once occupied.
Daeron learns not to speak of him quickly, for the very utterance of his name makes cousin Ormund go still as a snake, and that's usually the only warning one is going to get before he strikes.
Little else changes. Daeron still has his daily lessons in both the scholarly and of the sword. There is no alteration to his daily squiring duties, completing menial tasks, such as polishing Ormund's dusty armor, fetching his meals, and standing beside him to watch him pass judgment as the people of Oldtown come to him with their grievances. Despite all this, Daeron feels naked without Gwayne around as armor.
His entire life, he's been pulled between Ormund and Gwayne, with Gwayne as the voice of reason, the gentler hand, the shelter in the storm. Ormund is the blade that finds its way into Daeron's kidney when he least expects it.
For the sake of sanity, Daeron pretends that Gwayne's absence is of no note, because that is how Ormund wants reality to be seen.
It should be noted that his cousin is a great man, despite all these...quirks in his nature. It isn't to say that Daeron does not admire him. When Lord Ormund is feeling benevolent, he is the greatest, most intelligent mentor there is. When he gives praise, he can make one feel as though they are their own king, as though they have suddenly succeeded in the game of life. But when he is not...he is akin to a calm campfire roaring into an uncontrollable forest blaze, consuming everything in its path, even those sleeping by its warmth. He can make one's life without meaning, casting everything in a shadow from which one becomes desperate to escape, even if it means kissing his hand to do so.
It is a debasing thing to grovel for scraps of his favor.
Daeron loves him, just as he fears him. It is the only way of being he's ever known, and anything he knows of staying on his good side comes from Gwayne.
But now Gwayne is gone, and it seems there is no outlet for the ugly misgivings that often stir behind Ormund's eyes.
The days without Gwayne take on a strange shape, elastic in their sameness. Ormund's thinly veiled temper does not vanish in his absence; if anything, it thickens, like broth left too long on the fire, but there's no one brave enough to manage it. Daeron learns to read the weather of a room before he even enters it: the set of Ormund's shoulders, the particular way he holds his cup, the quality of his patronizing smile. He strives hard to become fluent in a language Gwayne must have spent a lifetime learning to speak.
It is into this fragile quiet that Ormund, one late afternoon, sets a Cyvasse board between them.
"Let's test what your Uncle has been teaching you of strategy," Ormund says with the air of arrogance coloring his voice in mocking gold.
Daeron loves games, so he is eager to play, to do something other than read and recite things. They sit down with the Cyvasse board between them, the nearby window casting down its light. Ormund takes forever to make his moves, thinking through far too many options, whereas Daeron wants to play for the sake of playing. Ormund makes a sweaty effort of it, drawing it out ridiculously so that Daeron thinks he might fall asleep before it's his next move.
Whenever Daeron moves one of his pieces, Ormund will make some little sound, as if critiquing the quality of his play. Daeron isn't a fan of that, and he certainly has some thoughts about Ormund's moves as well, but he's not about to say a word or make a sound that might cause offense.
After a few weeks, Daeron thinks he's got Ormund's style down. He's been beating Daeron the same way, because Daeron has been playing for fun, and not quite to beat. So, when he finally does change up his routine, he takes Ormund by surprise and beats him for the first time. Lord Hightower blinks down at the board for a moment, eyes scurrying across all the various pieces, rewinding each movement. Then, his eyes flash up to Daeron's face, and the look there makes Daeron's guts twist into knots.
There's this affronted expression crawling over his face, as though no one has ever dared beat him before.
Face going cold, Daeron realizes then his mistake. Gwayne doesn't win. Gwayne never wins. And Gwayne is the only person the Lord of Hightower plays against—
The petrified words "I wasn't thinking" spill right out of Daeron's mouth as he sits in his seat like a deer in the sights of a hunter.
For a moment, nothing happens. Ormund picks up one of the pawns and squeezes it so hard in his fist that Daeron fears it will shatter and break. Then, Ormund emits a rough exhale. "I'd say you actually were for once," Ormund finally grits out through a perfectly uncomfortable smile. Daeron's blood turns to ice.
For the next few weeks, Ormund unleashes new verbal humiliations and demeaning tasks, disguised as mentorship and poise. Always with a pleasant smile on his face, as though giving fatherly advice instead of ritually tearing down every bit of self-confidence that Daeron has.
Daeron reaches a point at the end of his mental strength, past wishing on Gwayne saving him, because that's simply never going to happen, is it? Gwayne is gone, Gwayne left him, and Daeron is going to have to find a way to survive Ormund's cruelties alone.
It occurs to him, naturally, that Gwayne had to manage Ormund alone for his entire life. It stands to reason that Gwayne had it far worse, being so close in age, being a built-in victim, rival, friend, confidant, all in one breath. To have Ormund's intense focus solely on one person is not something Daeron would ever begrudge.
It makes it harder for Daeron to hate his Uncle for taking the first chance at freedom he was offered.
He didn't leave you; he left Him.
He learns that his Uncle and cousin have been corresponding with some regularity. It only occurs to him when he notices Ormund spending more time writing than before Gwayne left. The ravens come and go, as do the messengers themselves.
Ormund exchanges more letters with Gwayne than Daeron has ever exchanged with his own mother. He cannot imagine what they have to say, as they rarely saw eye to eye, and Ormund oft used Gwayne as a proverbial scratching post more often than not.
He does not think that his cousin and uncle have ever been apart this long in their entire lives, so perhaps they do not know how to not talk, even if it isn't always pleasant.
He wonders if Gwayne is happy out there in the world, free at last, and he wonders if Ormund resents that.
He watches as Ormund reads the letter, observes the way his eyes travel the elegant scrawl. The skin around his eyes tightens, a sign that fire had been brought near the explosive barrel.
Going still, smiling that restrained smile, Ormund asks, "Tell me. What have you heard of this Ser Criston Cole in your studies of the knights of the realm?"
Daeron tries to remember what he's read as of late. "The Dornishman? He served the False Queen, before serving our family as Hand."
Ormund quietly stares at him, that intense eye contact that always reads as intimidation rather than attentiveness. Daeron's answer is not good enough, it seems. Daeron frantically tries to pull more from his memories, wanting to be of use. Anything, absolutely anything to keep Ormund happy. "Dark of hair, and of eye. He is of common birth. The son of a steward, I-I b-believe? They spoke of his skill as a fighter; they say he might be one of the best in the realm-"
His cousin inhales oddly and rolls up the letter in a brusque manner, hands flexing as though they might just crush the parchment into a ball.
Daeron gapes, confused. "Sire?" What did he say? Is it something he said?
Ormund is smiling again, but the smile does not reach his eyes. "Your Uncle rides to war. He will not be coming home as expected."
Daeron hides his hands behind his back, feeling them tremble. He is used to Gwayne dealing with Ormund's unpredictable moods, and Gods he wants Gwayne to come back, but he isn't, he's left them both without a care. Biting his lip nervously, Daeron tries to ask for more detail, but Ormund seems to be at the end of his patience with his presence.
"Leave me. It's about that hour for you to say your prayers, as it were." Ormund hasn't forgiven Daeron for knocking over scores of candles in the great Sept of Oldtown, right in the middle of prayer last month. The Septon had turned red, not from Daeron's childish mistake, but rather the words that came ripping out of Lord Hightower's mouth. The Septon had said, and Daeron quotes, these stone halls have not heard such obscene language uttered!
Gwayne and Ormund often took their prayers together, and it seems Ormund will not be doing so with Daeron anymore. Thank the Gods, because Daeron doesn't know how Gwayne managed it.
When Daeron flees the room, he spares a backwards glance, seeing the way his cousin leans back in his seat, head tipped back, eyes closed as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
~
Daeron tries his luck one day, asking, "Might I send a letter, alongside yours, Sire?" It would be nice to send his own to Gwayne, and to receive his own letters from him too—
The smile on Ormund's mouth is frozen, a mask of friendliness and calm that does not exist. The silence goes on for long enough that Daeron almost grovels, tripping over himself to claw it back, to say, silly me, I don't want to write to my Uncle, that was a jest, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked-
But he finally puts Daeron out of his spiral of terror, saying, "Of course. How thoughtful of you. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear from you."
The tense edge in his voice makes it sound like he's saying he'd rather strangle Daeron with his own belt, even despite the fatherly grin on his face. Ormund briefly inhales from his pomander, as if trying to settle himself back from some ugly ledge.
It's such a horrifying, tense experience that Daeron swears he will never subject himself to it again. He writes the letter, knowing it will probably be his last until Gwayne comes home, because he doesn't think he can bear to ask Ormund the same question twice.
It is strange, though. Daeron doesn't understand the vicious, territorial reaction. It can't possibly be that Ormund thinks Daeron's message will reduce the value of his.
Can it?
And why would it matter to a man so self-assured in his place in the world?
It doesn't seem fair that his lordly cousin keeps all of Gwayne's letters to himself, like some sort of goblin collecting coin. He reads them, sulks in silence, and then puts them off to the side, readily forgotten.
He doesn't even appreciate them; he should at least allow me to read what Gwayne is saying, seeing how he frowned at the mere mention of me writing a single letter, Daeron thinks mutinously. It is, perhaps, his greatest flaw that he ends up sneaking around, finding the letters to be read in the darker hours when Ormund has retired. It's a secret sort of glee, to rebel in such a way, to steal something away from the fanatical madman that rules Daeron's waking hours.
He knows Gwayne would have winked and said; if you do it, don't get caught.
The first time that Daeron sneaks about at night, when he unravels a letter and sees Gwayne's lovely scrawl, he feels a pang of loneliness in the center of his chest. His eyes dart across the page, noting how the tone is so different from the few letters that Daeron himself has received. It's filled with details he must prefer to spare Daeron, making note of things he's seen, the odd characters he's met, the indignity that befalls men so far from civilized life, the exhaustion of sleeping in the dirt more often than not, and what death smells like —this is a particularly interesting detail, knowing Ormund's nose. Gwayne seems to recite this detail with particular morbid relish, as though imagining his cousin gagging and huffing at his pomander just reading the ink.
There's a paragraph further down dripping with self-deprecation regarding his Faith in the Seven, shaken by what he's seen and done, and Daeron concludes that Ormund must have previously knifed Gwayne over some wavering faith and wrote him the riot act in Defense of the Seven. Gwayne's words ache in Daeron's chest, because his Uncle isn't one to admit to weakness in his spare letters to Daeron, but he'll tell Ormund that he's not strong enough and there is little to keep men together in the face of such horrors.
And there is Ser Criston Cole. A lot of him. Daeron wonders about that.
He does not mean to make a habit of it, truly he doesn't, but there is something addicting about these stolen hours, the small and stupid thrill of getting away with something in a house where getting away with anything is nigh impossible. He tells himself each time will be the last time, but Daeron always finds himself sneaking around once another letter comes.
It's because of this that Daeron comes to know Ser Criston Cole rather intimately for a man he has never laid eyes on. It is so different from dry tales in books, more flavored with life, colored by Gwayne's feelings and experiences, and the way he sees Ser Criston.
He learns that Ser Criston is slow to laughter, but when he does, it is sudden and startling in its warmth. He learns that Ser Criston once wagered his dagger on a game of dice and lost it, and spent three days squelching about camp wagering to get it back, which he eventually did at the cost of his pride, a detail Gwayne recounts with more open fondness than Daeron has ever heard him spend on a living soul. He learns that Ser Criston does not flinch from the worst of what they've seen, that he has a steadying way about him in the field, he's saved Gwayne's skin more than once, and that Gwayne trusts his sword-arm at his back without hesitation — an admission that Daeron reads three times, because his Uncle does not scatter trust so easily, has never scattered it so easily, not even here at home, where trust is the very currency Ormund demands and Gwayne is loath to spend on him freely.
Daeron begins to notice the shape of it before he understands what he is noticing: how Gwayne's letters to Ormund seem to flow with ease the moment Ser Criston enters them. How a man who confesses to faltering faith and to the stench of death in the same breath can still find room, paragraph after paragraph, for a Dornish steward's son and his terrible luck a gambling, which has absolutely no bearing on how great he is with a sword.
It does not occur to Daeron, not yet, to wonder why this should matter so very much to anyone. He only knows that it does to Gwayne, for his Uncle always finds something new to say of the same man.
Daeron thinks nothing of it, a mere boy of sixteen. Not until the evening he finally puts his foot straight into the fire.
It's a sloppy accident, really. The letters have been sitting in his mind, and Daeron would like to talk to someone about Gwayne, and it's been enough months; Ormund should be less sore about the whole thing. So, he says offhand to Ormund, "I've noticed that Gwayne writes a lot about Ser Criston in his letters...do you think they are good friends? They must be, seeing as they are away at war together, they seem to spend a lot of time in between battles, camped as they often are these months—"
The air goes chilly, as if a draft has suddenly swept through the room, taking Daeron's breath with it. Ormund looks at him, slow and measured. The wheels are turning behind those storm colored eyes, and Ormund glances towards his desk where the letters sit. He pieces the puzzle together in short order. "Have you been reading my correspondence?"
Daeron swallows, wrings his hands—
"Stop that."
Daeron drops his own hands as though they are snakes. A sweat breaks out on the nape of his neck, cold and icy, and his mind races.
"I...I...just...wanted to...he writes you often...and I....I just wanted to see what Uncle Gwayne-"
The hand flies out and catches him in the face, a large ring cutting his lip in a sudden blaze of fiery pain. Daeron stands there, stunned, mind spinning over the fact of what just happened. He trembles, tasting blood, and he hastily tries to wipe at what dribbles over his chin. He steps back, trying to put space between himself and the immediate threat that is his cousin, all while hunching his shoulders, trying to make himself small. Humiliation claws into the pain, more than anything, because no one has ever slapped him before-
His ears are ringing.
"Gods...." Ormund says, rubbing a shaking hand over his face. He paces the room in a fast turn, the way a caged animal might, trying to squash down whatever fury took him by the throat. "Why did you make me do that to you?"
I didn't, I didn't, Daeron wants to cry as he stares at the floor. He wants to disappear. But he can't, because Ormund is the Lord of Hightower House, and here, he is the law. It does not matter that he has told Daeron he is to be the next king now that Daeron's brothers have fallen. To Daeron, the Lord of Hightower will always hold a greater authority.
"Why are you sniveling like some common rat from Flea Bottom? Stand up straight and answer me."
Nothing he does right now will be right, absolutely nothing. Daeron doesn't know how to manage these violent moods, not when Ormund is deep in it. All he can do is weather the storm until it passes, and then go lick his own wounds after.
All he wanted was to read Gwayne's words, to feel closer to him, but Ormund can't bear to share even a single piece.
"I have n-no excuse, Sire." Daeron stares at the floor, praying it will be enough to get through the moment.
Ormund scoffs, taking in his abject submission.
Pacing around the room again, a bear seeking escape from a trap pit, Ormund finally takes an aggressive seat, using a knife to cut into one of the apples there with more force than necessary. He looks up at Daeron then, eyes still oozing with something poisonous, and asks in a disbelieving voice that takes Daeron by surprise. "What could they possibly have in common to talk about?" The inflection in his pattern of speech is near insecure, a higher pitch than his usual low timbre of arrogance.
Blinking, Daeron looks up, trying to unravel the new direction of conversation, the vitriol that suddenly seems pointed elsewhere. He...he means Gwayne and Ser Criston Cole? And does he truly want an answer, or does he just want to rant about it while Daeron stands like a statue of despair and indignity? Unsure of what to do, Daeron remains with his lips sealed.
It seems this is fine, because Ormund continues on to his captive audience.
"A Dornish steward's whelp," Ormund says at last, turning the knife over in his hand rather than the apple now. "Dark of hair and eye, you said. Low birth. And skilled — so the smallfolk claim, though smallfolk claim a great many things." His mouth twists, something between a smile and a grimace. His knuckles go white on the hilt. "Tell me, what does a man like that know of loyalty? He served the dragon bitch before he served us. He'll probably serve whoever holds the sharper sword when the wind turns again. Your uncle would do well to remember that, rather than filling pages with him as though they were companions since the cradle." A pause stretches, a beat too long. "As though I—" He stops. Whatever the end of that sentence might have been, he seems to think better of finishing it, and the knife finds the apple again, harder than before.
The words companions since the cradle is prickly, covered in thorns. Daeron knows some details of Gwayne's childhood with Ormund —not all details— but he does know they were raised side by side. He knows that Gwayne hasn't always flourished in the relationship, knows that to being close to Ormund is akin to being close to a barrel of explosive powder at all times, and he has seen the cruel games that Ormund has played.
But he also knows that Ormund has never once let Gwayne go far. Every absence has been accounted for and controlled, every letter read and reread, every homecoming inspected like a soldier returning from a battle Ormund fought from his chair. It occurs to Daeron, standing there with his split lip throbbing, that his cousin has spent over thirty years making very sure that Gwayne never had reason to look anywhere else. And now Gwayne has.
The Lord of Hightower likes control, and he wields favoritism as his weapon of choice. It's just that Daeron knows that Gwayne is always the favorite, even when it appears he is not. And that is precisely where the danger lies.
Daeron says nothing. He has learned, by now, that nothing is often the safest thing to say.
"It's obscene, really," Ormund says, softer, like he's tasting how foolish the previous words are. "As if thirty years counts for less than a few months struggling about in the filth and mud. Disloyal."
There's controlled, barely restrained violence still boiling under Ormund's skin, held back by a thin shred of Gods know what, and Daeron doesn't think this talk is making him any better. "I...I do not think..."
"I do not recall asking you to think, dear boy." Ormund says with that stilted grin. He talks with the knife waving about for a moment, which worries Daeron. His eyes flash, and his smile widens with something that reads like malice. "You know, your Uncle has always had an eye for men who flatter him for the most minuscule of things. Cole no doubt tells him he fights so well, with such skill." A muscle in his jaw ticks, and there's something slimy in these words that Daeron cannot quite grasp. Something green, thorned, and fanged. "I told him the truth of his form with the sword for the last twenty odd years, and I'm sure he thanks Cole for the lie."
Daeron bows his head, rolling these rather interesting details around in his head. His elder cousin is a spoiled man, he considers, and he makes it sound as though someone else is playing with his favorite toy. And Ormund doesn't like it. Exhaling a shaky breath, Daeron tries again, "I'm sure it's just because he is there, and you are here." He struggles to find the words that might soothe this monster he's found himself confronted by. He doesn't understand; why does Criston Cole upset him so? Does he think Gwayne has forgotten him? That's silly, because— "It is you Uncle Gwayne writes to, Sire."
The Lord of Hightower's face goes eerily blank, and for a moment, Daeron fears that he has struck a nerve. His elder cousin mulls over these words, slicking his hair back briefly with one hand. Perhaps he thinks he's behaved ridiculously over so small a thing, but then Ormund utters, "I do not require words of consolation from a green, inexperienced boy less than half my age."
Without needing more warning than that, Daeron scurries from the room like a kicked dog.
The damage to Daeron's lip has long since healed into nothing but unmarked skin by the time Gwayne comes to their side in Tumbleton.
It is soon and painfully clear that he is not the man he was before he left. Gwayne's a shell, a lighthouse with no light, and a great sorrow lingers in the air about him. His eyes stretch across thousands of miles, and Daeron feels as though he's staring right through him. The mud is streaked across his skin, and it seems that his grown slightly thinner than Daeron last recalls seeing him, almost a year ago.
Has it really been so long? Daeron can barely believe it.
Gwayne's eyes go to Ormund first, before they find Daeron at all. Searching, the way a man checks a wound to see if it's still bleeding. Whatever he's looking for, he doesn't seem to find it, because he inhales sharply, steeling himself.
Ormund doesn't move to embrace him. He remains seated, keeping distance between them, and not just because of his sensitive nose. His eyes travel the length of Gwayne —the new leanness of him, the road dust ground into the creases of his hands— with the same slow, cataloguing look he gave the letters filled with Ser Criston Cole.
The silence stretches long enough that Daeron begins to count his own heartbeats, uncertain whether he ought to look at Ormund, or Gwayne, or the floor, or nothing at all. He has imagined this reunion a hundred different ways in the long months of Gwayne's absence — pictured relief, pictured his Uncle's easy grin splitting wide the moment he crossed the threshold. He had not pictured this: two men regarding each other from across a room like wary hounds circling the same scrap of meat, neither willing to close the distance first.
And while Daeron knows that his cousin has waited for this day for months on end, same as he, Ormund's tongue is laden with venom when he finally speaks. "And so, Ser Criston fights on, and yet you have returned. Because...?"
Honestly, Daeron almost tips over; the first thing out of his mouth is Ser Criston Cole?
"Because fighting on is madness," Gwayne says, as though this is the only answer there could possibly be. His voice is a rasp, as though he's not had water for days. Perhaps he hasn't.
Ormund casts his glance to Daeron, something playful and cruel in his expression. The sinking feeling in Daeron's stomach grows as he asks, "Do you think me mad, Your Grace?"
To his shame, Daeron falls over himself to give Ormund a swift, placating agreement. "No, Sire."
Ormund gives Gwayne a smug look that speaks volumes. "Hmm."
Gwayne stands there in his travel-filth with his hands loose at his sides, the very picture of a man who has walked through something Daeron cannot begin to name and does not wish to. There is a beat where Daeron hopes, foolishly, that his Uncle might simply cross the room, might fold Daeron into an embrace despite the road-dust and the smell of horse and old blood clinging to him, might say something soft the way he always used to when Ormund's moods grew too heavy to bear alone.
He does not.
Instead, Gwayne draws a breath that seems to be a burden itself, and when he speaks, his voice has none of the warmth Daeron remembers, none of the easy comfort of a man reciting lists before he rides off to war. It is flat. Hopeless. The voice of a man rationing what little of himself he has left to spend. He continues pressing on about the madness of Ormund's intended campaign, all while Ormund brushes him off, discussing his clear advantage. He goes so far as to call Gwayne craven, looking to Daeron once more for his agreement—
Daeron finds himself helplessly smiling, showing his support.
Gwayne watches this exchange with a betrayed glance at Daeron, as though seeing him in a new light, and not liking what he's found. The smile slowly falls off Daeron's lips, and he wills his Uncle to understand, for he must understand; he knows exactly what it is to be under Ormund's controlling eye at all times. He does not examine how, for a small moment, it felt nice to have Ormund be on his side against Gwayne, because he knows it won't last.
Back and forth the conversation goes, until finally, Gwayne seems to grow weary of the battle of wills. "I have marched a long road, fought and killed, and suffered my comrades to be killed about me."
Now standing behind his chair, Ormund pouts slightly as he mocks in the ugliest fashion he can possibly summon, "Yes, you have endured much. I'm sure you found solace with some of your brothers in arms."
Something like a hammer hits Daeron, because the words are foul. They are crude, lowly, not befitting a lord of Ormund's status in any way, shape, or form. Did...did he really just call Daeron's Uncle a sodomite, right in front of him? The idea sickens, appalls, and Daeron cannot imagine what provoked such a wicked comment! He looks to his Uncle, almost willing him to defend himself against such a low, slanderous blow—
The words have to cut deep, but Gwayne, for his part, barely flinches under the onslaught. Not even a flicker of pain; it seems to slide right off him like rain across stone.
"I am fatigued." Gwayne does not seem to have enough heart left to care, and he weathers the next vulgar comment that follows like a beaten dog. Accepting each blow as though he deserves them.
Daeron wishes he would stand up for himself. The other part of him, the one that belongs to Ormund, hisses accusations, all the reasons why Gwayne deserves what he has coming: You wrote him all those letters, and in them you spoke of Ser Criston Cole. You spoke of him as though he had become your greatest friend, as though you admired him, and you spoke of him to a person who has never shared your loyalty with anyone else at all.
Shame circles back because he recognizes the shape of what he has become. He has spent months learning to anticipate Ormund's moods before they break, learning to smile before he is asked to, learning which silences keep the peace and which words draw blood. He had thought himself only surviving. He sees now, watching his Uncle absorb blow after blow with nothing offered back in his defense, that survival has curdled into something else entirely — that he is no longer merely enduring Ormund's cruelty, but has become a small instrument of it, standing here mute while his Uncle is picked apart, because his silence is precisely what Ormund requires of him.
He is not merely Ormund's shadow now. He is Ormund's hand.
It is almost a relief when Ormund dismisses them both from his presence, casual as can be, delighted in his own menace.
Daeron follows after Gwayne, staring at the defeated, broken slump of his shoulders.
He's punishing you, Uncle.
But I imagine you knew that already.
You knew he would punish you the day you left.
~*~
"Your Grace," Gwayne repeats the damning words in a poisonous scoff when they enter the hallway alone.
"I had to get through it," Daeron tries to reason, feeling shame for how he sided with Ormund's cruel verbal jabs.
"And this is your way? Fawning?" For one unguarded moment he looks less disappointed and more exhausted, the kind of tiredness that lives somewhere deeper than the body, though the body wears it too — the stoop of his shoulders, the grey pallor beneath the dirt and sun. "Daeron, he's styled you the bloody king!" Gwayne sounds appalled. He slightly shakes his head as though in disbelief, confused by what has transpired in his absence.
How else was I to survive him and his petty cruelties, his mad schemes of control, Daeron thinks in despair. I tried to be you, I tried to do everything right, but it was so hard, and I'm not you, no one will ever be you. "Don't leave me again. Please."
"You're his little treasure now." Gwayne sounds world-weary, empty of fire. "You'll be fine."
Daeron watches his Uncle walk away, and thinks of Ormund these past few months. He thinks of Ormund's face, the way he'd said the words companions since the cradle — as though someone had reached into his chest and taken hold of something he'd never once had to guard, because no one had ever thought to want it. He had never had to fight for it before. Now he might lose it.
I'm no treasure.
I'm just a proxy he will rule through.
He is your bully, but you are his person.
He just didn't know it until you left.
He didn't know it until you wrote about someone else taking space in your heart
~*~
He catches a glimpse of them, days later as he's sparring in the courtyard below.
They are together in front of a second-story open window, but they are not looking downward at Daeron. They are looking at each other.
He sees the way Ormund —taller, broader— leans into Gwayne's space, breathing his air, speaking to him in what appears to be a pleased tone, a genuine smile on his face. Gwayne's head is slightly tilted, his lovely halo of red hair catching the afternoon light, shoulders at ease. He looks like a man standing exactly where he means to stand. Together, they appear to be two pieces made whole, the kind of closeness that isn't taught, only worn in over years, until it fits like a second skin.
For one strange, suspended moment, Daeron thinks of the things the Septons warn against in low, disgusted voices — and something in the shape of Ormund and Gwayne at that window looks, for half a heartbeat, uncomfortably close to the shape of those warnings.
He looks away before the thought can finish forming. Some trick of the light, surely. He will not let himself believe such a thing of the head of his own House. They are Hightowers. Not Targaryens.
But, it nags. Any other man might have leaned backwards, away from the controlling, entitled way that Ormund closes distance.
Gwayne, Daeron notes, did not.